


One Worth Trusting

by Wynn



Series: One Worth [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adult Content, Adult Language, Angst, Because these two can be angsty as hell, F/M, Fighting occurs, Of the non-violent kind, Romance, Truths are revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6424630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Frank presses the first speed dial and, a couple seconds later, her phone rings in her purse. Karen doesn’t bother asking how he knew her number. She just stares at him instead, caught between irritation at his actions and understanding for the impulse behind them. And if that didn’t sum up her feelings for Frank Castle, the man a murderer but one she understood. The man in question watches her, his brow furrowed but his jaw set, Frank willing to throw down over this, his efforts to keep her safe.</em>
</p><p>  <em>Sighing again, Karen points to the kitchenette behind him. “If you’re so willing to do things for me, why don’t you pour me a drink? I’m going to get changed.”</em></p><p>
  <em>His face softens, nearly into a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”</em>
</p><p>A continuation of "One Worth Knowing." Frank accepts Karen's invitation to come by her apartment for a drink. All goes well until it doesn't, until truths are revealed and revelations made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Worth Trusting

**Author's Note:**

> These two have taken up permanent residence in my brain, so have some more Kastle. I, of course, do not own Karen Page or Frank Castle. They are owned by Marvel, Netflix, ABC, etc. I’m just playing in their sandbox for non-profit, entertainment purposes for a while.

One Worth Trusting  
By: Wynn

She’s late, of course, a local Congressman calling an unexpected press conference to confess his adultery and beg, tears and all, for forgiveness. Ellison had demanded a write-up of it afterward and then an edit and then a review of the files Frank had given her that afternoon. She hadn’t set a specific time with Frank to meet, but she imagined after midnight to be too late even for him. He had shook his head at the offer of her phone number as they left the diner, claiming never to carry a phone, so Karen had no way to contact him to let him know she hadn’t changed her mind, that, rather, the sins of the city demanded attention, a reason he’d well understand.

Striding down the hall to her apartment, Karen finishes her last text to Ellison then exchanges her phone for her keys in her purse. When she reaches her door, she lifts the key and slides it into the lock. Or she tries to. The key bounces off, rebounding off the door, no longer fitting the big brass monstrosity that now stares at her.

“What-”

Before she can finish the question, the door opens. Karen eases back a step, her breath stilling in her chest, then she sees Frank standing on the other side. She exhales in a rush then stills again, her gaze jerking from him to the brass monstrosity. “Seriously? You changed the lock?”

He shrugs at her. “It was shit.”

Karen gapes at him a moment before sighing. He was right. The lock had been shit; she couldn’t argue about that. Shaking her head, she moves past him into her apartment. “Any other changes I should know about?” 

“A few,” he says as Karen dumps her purse onto the table by the door.

Turning, Karen sees him grab a bar from beside her glass cabinet. Frank shoves one end under the door handle; he wedges the other end against the floor. “Steel bar for your door,” he says as he faces her. “Some your windows, too. And better locks. Ones people can’t jimmy open. And this,” he adds, pulling a cheap phone from his pocket.

Karen arches a brow at him. “I already have a phone.”

“I know. This one’s mine.”

Frank presses the first speed dial and, a couple seconds later, her phone rings in her purse. Karen doesn’t bother asking how he knew her number. She just stares at him instead, caught between irritation at his actions and understanding for the impulse behind them. And if that didn’t sum up her feelings for Frank Castle, the man a murderer but one she understood. The man in question watches her, his brow furrowed but his jaw set, Frank willing to throw down over this, his efforts to keep her safe.

Sighing again, Karen points to the kitchenette behind him. “If you’re so willing to do things for me, why don’t you pour me a drink? I’m going to get changed.”

His face softens, nearly into a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Karen shakes her head, but a smile tugs at her lips too. Turing, she enters her bathroom, nestled by the entrance to her apartment. She spies Frank entering her kitchenette as she closes the door. Inside, she disrobes, hanging up her skirt and blouse for work and reaching for the pair of yoga pants and her soft blue sweater in a pile by the sink. Karen checks her teeth, runs a brush through her hair, considers and then discards any perfume. This wasn’t a date. Or maybe it was, but one different from any other she’d been on before. At that, the memory of her one and only date with Matt pushes its way into her brain. Karen shoves it aside. She hadn’t known Matt then, not really, not like she knows him now. Or like how she knows Frank. Maybe if she had, things would be different, Matt out in her apartment now rather than Frank, but they weren’t. Frank was here and Matt wasn’t. And that configuration fit Karen just fine.

Out of the bathroom, Karen finds Frank on the loveseat before the windows, two tumblers of whisky waiting for them on the chipped coffee table. 

“You hungry?” she asks as she crosses the room.

Frank shakes his head. He wears the same black as he had during lunch. Karen glimpses his hat and jacket and what looks to be a loaded shoulder holster in a pile on the floor by his end of the coffee table. Frank watches her as she approaches, as she sits beside him and pulls her right leg beneath her so she can face him. The light from her bedside lamp illuminates his face along with the ambient glow from outside. With it and without his hat, she can see that he’s let his hair grow out, obscuring the military cut that became synonymous with him during the trial.

“You look good,” she says after a moment. 

His brows lift. So too does a corner of his mouth.

Karen rolls her eyes, the alternate meaning behind her words processing. “I mean physically. No bruises,” she adds, pointing to his face.

Frank shrugs. “Yeah, it’s been a while since anyone’s beat the shit out of me.” He snorts then and reaches for his glass. “Though Red tried not too long ago.”

“Red?”

Frank takes a sip of the whisky. “Yeah. Daredevil.” There’s a beat in which Frank stares at his drink then he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ dumb name.”

Karen goes still at the revelation. She tries to cover her reaction by reaching for her glass, but the gesture must fail for she finds Frank eyeing her as she leans back. Karen says nothing, just takes a drink of her whisky. Frank peers at her another moment then leans over and returns his glass to the table. 

“It was interesting,” he says as he straightens. “Me and Red this last time. Normally, it’s all, ‘You can’t kill people, Frank. It’s wrong,’ and there was some of that, too, don’t get me wrong. But there was more than that, too.”

Karen takes another drink of her whisky. “Oh?”

“Yeah. This time he told me to stay away from you.”

Karen’s grip on her glass tightens, but she manages to keep her face composed, her only response arching a brow at Frank, at his presence here, now, on her couch.

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, Red and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

“You did,” Karen says, easing her hold on her glass. “At least about this.”

The humor fades from his face at the reference to his eight month absence from her life. Frank glances at his glass, but he doesn’t take another drink. Karen resists too, though the lure of liquid courage draws her in. Rather, she pulls in a deep breath and says, “Are you… This isn’t because of… him, is it? Daredevil, I mean.” Karen drops her gaze to her glass, unable to look at Frank, to see the truth if it’s yes. “And you- You being here.”

Frank shifts. Karen stills as he twists around toward her, mirroring his pose. He lifts a hand and reaches out, hesitating just a second before he settles it over hers on her glass. Like his touch, his voice is soft when he says, “I’m not here ‘cause he told me not to, okay? Red’s got nothing to do with this. With you and me.”

Karen lifts her gaze to his. The truth she sees has her taking her glass with her free hand, has her twisting her wrist until she’s clasping his hand in hers. They hadn’t touched beyond this at the diner and only then for a minute, long enough for Frank to summon Barbara back with a couple of menus. The nascent intimacy of the touch quickens her heart, this, perhaps, an indication or a promise of more.

“I got to admit,” Frank says now, a spark of sly humor back in his eyes. “It did make me curious. What Red said. Why, you know, he’d say it. ‘Cause I hadn’t been near you, hadn’t done nothing to piss him off, at least not about you, and yet here he was, waving his fist and his threats around. It got me to thinking. If I hadn’t done something to piss him off…”

“Then I had.”

Frank smiles at her. “Bingo.”

Karen shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling too. “Okay,” she says, pausing a moment to sip at her whisky. “I had done something. I’d been asking questions about you. Well, kind of about you. More about the dog fighting ring out in Jersey. You know, what happened to them.” She tilts her head to the side and arches a brow at him. “It seemed like your handiwork.”

Frank shrugs, as much of a confirmation as she was likely to get. 

“And he- Daredevil- found out,” Karen continues. The smile on her face falters at the memory of that particular conversation with Matt.

“Let me guess,” Frank says. “He wasn’t happy.”

“No, he wasn’t. He never is,” she amends. “At least not about me.” Frank doesn’t ask, but Karen feels the weight of his unspoken question. Sighing, she taps a finger against her glass of whisky. “He thinks I’m reckless.”

“You are.” Frank shrugs again as Karen’s eyes snap up to his. “I’m not judging here, sweetheart. Just stating a fact. You’re one of the most goddamn reckless people I’ve ever met, and I spent a damn near decade with the Marines.”

Karen fixates on the endearment, feels herself warm because of it, but she doesn’t call him on it. Instead, she says, “Maybe, but that’s my business, okay? Not his.”

“Agreed.”

“Good.”

Frank’s mouth twitches in a small smile. He leans over and grabs his glass, takes a drink and sets it back. Karen watches him as he does, her thoughts turning.

Frank catches her stare. “Something on your mind?”

Karen nods. “I get the timing of this. Why you made contact with me now and not before. For all you knew, I was still angry, so I get that. I just…” She looks down then, at their joined hands. The proof of his presence here strengthens her, so she looks back up at him and says, “You could have stayed gone. You didn’t have to come back. Because you… You had a pretty clear response to what I said before. About you being dead to me. But you didn’t stay gone. And I just… I wondered what changed. Because it’s like you said. You haven’t stopped, yet you’re here, and I just- I…” 

“Wondered.”

Karen peers at him, her heart beating fast. “Yes.”

Frank nods. He lifts his free hand and rubs it across his face, up and over the back of his head. It lingers on his neck a moment before he snags his glass from the table and downs the whisky.

“You don’t have to-”

“I do. Christ.” He lowers his glass to peer at her, doleful. “I just asked you to spill your guts, and you did. I can’t fucking well say no after that.”

“No, you really can’t.” She squeezes his hand to soften the blow of her agreement then tilts her head toward his empty glass. “You want another?” 

“Shit, yes. Bring the bottle.”

Laughing, Karen squeezes his hand again then she stands and moves to the kitchenette. Grabbing the bottle, she refills her glass, returns to the loveseat, pours Frank a liberal second serving, and then places the bottle within his reach. Frank gulps down the entirety of his glass, but he doesn’t pour anymore. He stares at the bottle, though, as he begins. 

“It was an accident. Or not. Because I chose to read it. Your article. The one about the group Red fought. The ninjas. I was looking for information about this scumbag I was trying to find, and I saw your name by the article. So I read it. That was all. I read it and I moved on. I had stuff to do and I made my choice.” Frank pauses then, biting back some emotion with the clench of his jaw. A few seconds pass and then he says, softer, “I found another one ‘bout a month later, I guess. I was waiting for this cockroach rapist to come home, so I read it. And then I just… kept doing it. Kept reading them.” Frank blows out a breath. His eyes dart over to her and then away again. “I looked for ‘em, sought ‘em out. Barbara, she got to keeping a stack of _The Bulletin_ for me to look through when I came by. She didn’t know why, just that sometimes- sometimes when I read them, I was… okay.” He shrugs then, his gaze still not focused on her, but drifting around, from the table to the wall beyond. A small smile breaks his reverie. He sends it her way as he looks at her again. “I don’t know shit about newspapers or what makes them good. But I liked what you wrote. I liked reading it, you going toe to toe with pieces of shit, tearing ‘em down and making them pay. But then…” His smile fades and he averts his gaze. “But then I realized I liked them not because of what you wrote. But because- because you wrote them. Because they were _yours_. And I- Shit, I didn’t think… I didn’t think I’d ever… But there I was… _feeling_. And I got tired. I got so fucking tired of-”

Frank stops and pulls in a breath. The tremulous nature of it, the sheen of tears in his eyes, makes her ache. They make Karen want to reach for him, but she doesn’t. She waits for him to continue instead. Yet the seconds tick by without revelation, so she says, softly, “Of what?”

“Of missing you.”

He meets her eyes then, his expression raw, fierce and desperate. Because of her. Of how he feels about her. Karen strives for a steadying breath, but nothing within her feels steady. She licks her lips in another effort. Frank’s gaze flits down, catches and hangs on her mouth. Heat unfurls slow within Karen at his look. She eases forward, closer to him. Her knee bumps his thigh. She pulls her leg beneath her, lifts herself up on it, and reaches out with her right hand toward him. Frank shivers as she lays a hand on his shoulder, as she nudges it back, opening him up toward her. She leans in. Frank stares at her, spellbound, his breath coming fast and shallow. Karen braces herself on his shoulder. She lifts her left hand and draws careful fingers against the strong line of his jaw, rough with stubble, with healing scrapes. She stops at his mouth, her fingers hovering above his lips, the lush top, snarling and sneering with others, a flat grim line, but soft with her.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice quiet in the hush of her apartment.

Frank gasps out half a laugh. “I ain’t protesting.”

“You aren’t participating either.”

This breaks his spellbound daze. He moves, heat firing his gaze as he reaches for her. Karen feels his hand settle on her waist. There’s no hesitancy in his touch here, not like the diner or the touch of his hand on hers minutes before. His hold is sure, certain in its intent. A flash of want rushes through Karen. Frank lifts his left hand. He tangles his fingers in the lock of hair curling around her face and draws them, gentle, through the strands. Karen clenches his shoulder, trembling. 

“Like fucking sunshine,” he murmurs. Then he slides his hand to the back of her hand and draws her down the last few inches.

Any lingering hesitancy burns away when their lips touch. Frank kisses not like a dying man, but a living one, one suffused and renewed by desire. Karen clutches at his shoulder and his shirt, her hand falling away from his mouth when he caressed her hair. The world reduces to the taste of whisky on his lips and the grip of his hand on her waist, to the scratch of his stubble across her face and the sound that he makes when their tongues touch.

A moment later, he pulls away. Karen opens her eyes, finds his still closed and his chest heaving. “I ain’t… I ain’t ever been with anybody but Maria.”

Karen eases back. Frank’s hand slides from her head to her shoulder as she moves. He opens his eyes, but he turns his head away, gazing down to the coffee table instead. Karen tugs on his shirt until he faces her once more. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about this. About me. About being here with me.”

Frank’s shaking his head before Karen even finishes. “I don’t.” At the arch of her brow, he sends her a wry smile. “Okay, I did. I stayed gone as long as I did because of it. But it’s not because of my family, okay?” He pulls back a bit, settling again onto the loveseat. He doesn’t let go though, clasping her hands as she sits too. “My family… They’re gone. It still burns me up inside, but I said my goodbyes. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss ‘em. Because I do. Every damn day, I do. But I don’t…” He pauses and shakes his head, eyes flitting away from her. “I don’t… I- Fuck.” Frank shoots up from the loveseat, skirting the coffee table to pace the room. Karen watches as he rubs a hand along his head, as he bites down hard on his bottom lip. Then, abruptly, he stops and turns toward her. “You know what I do. Being here with you, doing what I do…” Frank grits his teeth and presses his lips flat, but Karen still sees the quiver of emotion in his jaw. “I’m no good. You said it yourself. I’m- I’m a…”

 _Monster_ goes unsaid.

Karen starts to stand. “Frank…”

“I ain’t denying it. I’m not. I-”

“I killed someone, too.”

Frank’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen as he looks at her.

Karen means to stand, but the intensity of his gaze upon her and the revelation yet to come send her back down to the loveseat. Leaning over, she grabs her glass and mimics Frank from before- tossing back the whole lot before beginning. Karen licks the remainder from her lips. She feels a fine tremor jar her hands. Tightening her hold on the glass, she picks a spot on the floor to direct her gaze and begins.

“His name was Wesley. James Wesley. He, uh, he worked for Fisk. He was Fisk’s right hand man basically. And he- he found out that I was investigating Fisk, looking into his past, trying to find anything I could to put him away. And Wesley… He took me. He threatened me. He said he was going to kill my friends, my family, everyone, if I didn’t stop.” She pauses. Her eyes cut to the bottle of whisky, more than half remaining, enough to drown the memories that rise to the fore. Beyond the bottle, though, she sees Frank, frozen in place, watching her. Karen sets her glass on the coffee table and folds her arms in on herself. “He tried to scare me,” she continues. “He had a gun, but I got it and I shot him. Seven times, right in the chest. And I know… I know I should feel guilty. And I do. In a way. It was… awful. Doing it. Killing him. I-” Karen closes her mouth against the bile that rises in her throat, at the remembered smell of blood and gunpowder, the kick of the gun as she pulled the trigger again and again. She pulls in a long breath and tries to clear her head. Frank says nothing. Karen can’t look at him, unsure of what she’ll see, if he’ll change how he looks at her as Matt had when she professed her belief in the efficacy of killing those who deserved to die. Those like Wesley. Her mouth compresses and the trembling of her hands stills. “Murder might not be right, but James Wesley dead? That is. That I don’t regret. The world is better off without him. He and Fisk… They hurt so many people…” Her voice hitches, caught in remembrances of Ben and Daniel, of poor Mrs. Cardenas, all of them hurt by Wesley and Fisk. Frank moves then, back to the loveseat, pulling Karen out of herself. She looks at him again, her voice steadying. “I told you before. I can’t judge you, Frank. I’ve _been_ you. I didn’t even think about calling the police with Wesley. I could have. I had the gun, and I know he had a phone. He kidnapped and drugged me. There was proof. But I didn’t even think about it. Because I knew if I did, he’d get free. Fisk had too many cops in his pocket, too many lawyers and judges. So I did it myself. I killed him.” She tilts her chin in the air and stares him down. “So if you’re a monster, then so am I.”

Frank says nothing to that, or to the rest of her admission. He just stares at her, his mouth the flat, grim line of the Punisher. Then, quietly, “Does Fisk know about this?”

Karen starts to frown. “Frank-”

“Does he?”

Karen startles at the increase in volume and intensity. “No. No, if he did, I’d be dead.”

Frank eases down at her response. But he doesn’t calm completely. His gaze drifts from her, to the wall opposite them, painted and plastered but still bearing some scars from Schoonover’s try on her life. Frank’s mouth flattens again, and Karen wants to say something but she can’t, thrown by his reaction. She expected condemnation or support, not a call to arms by the Punisher against Wilson Fisk. Karen reaches for the whisky and pours herself another glass. Fisk was, somehow, up for appeal in a month. The thought of Frank taking him on sends the tremor through her hands again. Frank may have fought a dozen men at one time, survived impossible situations like the explosion of the Blacksmith’s boat, but Fisk was something different. Something bigger. Maybe with Matt, but the thought ends there, skittering off to the last time Matt, Frank, and Fisk crossed paths, when Frank escaped prison, when Fisk, possibly, if Matt were correct in his supposition, helped Frank escape. 

The question starts before Karen can gauge the prudence of asking. “Did you…”

Frank turns to her, his brow softening. “Did I what?”

She hesitates, stalling with a sip of whisky. But the pull to know is too strong within her, so she swallows and says, “Did you see Fisk in prison?” 

Frank eyes her, uncertainty flickering his gaze. “Yes.”

Karen nods. She lifts her glass only to lower it a second later. “Did he… Did Fisk…” The words stick in her throat, the accusation distasteful.

“Just say it, Karen.”

Her eyes snap up at his rough demand. Frank stares at her, breathing fast, his gaze wary but also resolute. Karen feels the ground tilt beneath them, she feels the reins slipping from her grasp, but she presses on, the truth demanding all. “Did Fisk help you escape?”

The change is subtle in Frank, a brief clench of his jaw, a stilling of his breath, but it’s detectable and thus undeniable. It’s all the proof Karen needs, though Frank confirms a second later with a stilted nod.

Karen averts her stare. She peers down at her glass, but doesn’t lift it, doesn’t even think of doing it, her stomach churning. Silence reigns, broken only the faint hum of her fridge. Then, turning to Frank again, Karen asks, the word bursting forth as a bullet from a gun, “Why?”

Frank considers her a beat before speaking. “Do you want to know why he helped me? Or why I let him?”

“Both.”

Karen doesn’t know if Frank hesitates or pauses to gather his thoughts. Each second that slides by ratchets up her pulse, makes it difficult for her to breath. “A guy in prison with Fisk,” Frank begins slowly, “a piece of shit named Dutton, he was the one who set up the meeting between the Dogs, the Irish, and the Cartel.”

“Why would Fisk tell you? Why would he care?” 

Frank swallows hard then draws in a long breath. “Dutton ran the prison. Fisk didn’t like that. He wanted to be the man in charge.”

Karen pulls her shoulders back. “And Fisk wanted you to kill him.”

“Yes. But you know that’s not why I did it.”

“Is that why he helped you escape? Was it a- a thank you?”

“No. The shitpile tried to kill me after. He locked me in Dutton’s block with his cronies.”

Karen looses a soft sigh. “So he did it to protect himself.”

Frank doesn’t respond. He pushes up from the loveseat instead and begins, once more, to pace the room. Unease sours Karen as he does. Leaning over, she sets her glass on the table. Her eyes track Frank across the room. His hands fist by his sides, seeking someone to fight, something to punch and maim and destroy.

“Just say it, Frank.”

He jerks to a stop at her reciprocated command. The battle ready rage fades then, and in the dim light, Karen sees the same discomfort on his face as before. The same shame. “Fisk… He doesn’t want anyone else taking over out here while he’s in prison.”

Her eyes widen in understanding. “So he let you out. To kill them. For him.”

Frank twists toward her, his head shaking fast. “No. Absolutely not. There’s no goddamn way in hell that I would _ever_ do anything for him. That scumbag knows, when he gets out, I’m coming for him.”

“But he benefits. He runs that prison now.” 

“I know!” Frank presses his mouth flat and struggles for control. Breathing hard, he says, quieter, “I know he does. But what else could I have done? Not kill Dutton? Because that’s justice for my family-”

Karen stands. “I know. God, Frank, I know. I’m not saying that. I just-”

“What?”

Karen shakes her head. She lifts a hand to her mouth and turns away, she moves away, over to her bed, seeking distance, escape from the memory, but she fails and begins to tremble, hot tears pricking her eyes. 

“Karen… what-” 

The question falters, Frank approaches. She hears his steps, soft but steady. She hears concern. Closing her eyes, Karen inhales, full and deep. The breath helps steady her. Lowering her hand, she faces Frank and opens her eyes.

“Fisk threatened Matt. Matt had gone to see him after you escaped, to ask him if he helped you. And Fisk…” She stumbles, the fear on Matt’s face as he told her and Foggy the truth appearing stark in her memory, as unsettling now as it had been then. Swallowing hard, Karen says, “Fisk told Matt that he’d kill him when he got free. That he’d kill all the people responsible for putting him in prison. Matt and Foggy and…”

Frank closes the distance between them, his expression fierce once more. “He’s not gonna get that chance. Ever.”

Karen doesn’t say it, but she thinks it, her traitorous brain thinks it, _You said that before_. With the Blacksmith, he’d said it before, that the Blacksmith would never get the chance to hurt her again. And then he’d used her as bait. Karen doesn’t say it, but Frank still sees it on her face, the pain of the betrayal, the act a betrayal because she had trusted him, she trusted him, and he breaks.

“Frank-”

Frank shakes his head. He turns from her and returns to the coffee table, to the far end with his belongings.

His intention clarifies then. Breathless, Karen moves toward him. “Don’t. Don’t leave.”

Frank ignores her, crouching down for his effects .

Karen picks up speed, reaching him as he straightens. “Goddamn it, Frank, _talk_ to me.”

Frank looks at her then, his brow furrowed but his jaw set. “Forget about me. Forget I ever existed.”

Karen gapes half a second before her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms over her chest. “No.”

Frank returns her steady stare. His jaw works like he wants to respond, but all he does is press his lips flat and skirt around her for the door. 

She moves without thinking, swiping his abandoned tumbler from her coffee table, fueled by the diner, by Frank refusing to look at her as he told her to get away from him, by the shack in the woods, by Frank ignoring her plea and closing the door in her face. Spinning around, she hurls the glass at the wall opposite her. It smashes upon impact, sending shards in all directions. Frank whirls at the sound, his eyes searching the windows as his hand reaches for his gun. He freezes and frowns and, finally, looks at Karen, at her clenched hands, at her heaving chest, at the wall to his right and the shattered remains of the glass. 

“Don’t you _dare_ walk away from me again,” she says. “Not again. _You_ came back into my life. I didn’t find you. You came to me. You can’t just waltz out because I’ve pissed you off.”

His face twists in disbelief. “Is that what you think?”

“Why not? You won’t fucking talk to me, so I don’t know anything else.”

“What do you want me to say, Karen? That Red was right? That I should have stayed away?”

Karen flounders at his explanation. But only for a moment. Then she narrows her eyes again and jabs a finger in his direction. “That is _my_ decision to make, not his.”

Frank shakes his head. “It’s not his decision. It’s _mine_. It’s mine, Karen. I can’t- I can’t do this.” His chest shudders as he tries to breathe. “I can’t drag you down with me.”

Again, she gapes. Hands lifting, Karen runs them through her hair, gripping the ends tight. “Oh my god. I am so _sick_ of this martyr bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

Karen lowers her hands to her sides. “Yes. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. You think if you just walk away, that I’ll be safe? That I’ll never be in danger again?” She laughs, a harsh one. “Christ, Frank. The last person who had my job was _murdered_ , in his own apartment, because of an article he was writing. And I was framed for murder because I was digging too deep into my last job. I was kidnapped and I was threatened because of questions I was asking about Fisk. And Schoonover shot at me, he shot up my apartment after he shot Reyes right in front of me, and I _still_ kept asking questions. So don’t sell me any of this ‘I’m doing this for your own protection, Karen’ because that’s bullshit. If you walk out that door, it wouldn’t be because of what you do. It would be because of who you are.”

“You’re goddamned right that’s why! What I do, that is who I am. I’m a killer. I killed so many people I don’t even know how many anymore. And I’m a liar. I make deals with devils, and I sold you out for-” He stops, his jaw snapping shut. Frank breathes fast, and Karen finds herself cooling as he struggles for control, as he gaze flits around the room, searching for something, for something to throw, something to punch, something to rage against and ruin, but there’s nothing so he just shakes his head, staring down at the floor. 

“I told you before, I’m no good. I’m not. No man does what I do. Not any of it. Not a good one. One worth-” Frank stops again, breath hitching in his chest. He closes his eyes. From across the room, she can see him tremble. Karen wants to move toward him, to reach for his hand and hold him, draw him into her arms, back to the past, to twenty minutes before, she in his arms and fire in her blood as they kissed, but Frank opens his eyes then and all Karen sees is the shack, his expression cold and hollow, empty as a grave.

“Forget about me. I’m done. I’m dead. I’m gone. There’s nothing here. I burnt it all away, traded it for revenge. That’s all I am, and if you stay with me, that’s all you’ll be too. You- who you are- all of that, will be gone. And I can’t- I can’t do that. I can’t do that, Karen. Not to you.”

He turns then, striding for the door, his steps stiff and swift. Karen watches, tears in her eyes, as he snatches her new keys from the top of her cabinet and unlocks her door. He drops them back after, but doesn’t reach for the door. He stands, frozen, a moment then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Karen watches as he drops it by the keys, as he reaches for the door and opens it, as he moves through and, without looking back, walks away.

*


End file.
